


Changing Trains

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-12 21:13:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson overhears a conversation, which leads to profound consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ...Never Hear Anything Good

**Author's Note:**

> A seven-part story, where each part is in response to a different prompt. The prompt for this chapter: Prompt: Eavesdropping and its possible consequences (be it misunderstandings, hurt and anger, something awkward taken totally out of context, whatever)

 

 

"Your hypothesis is predicated on a fallacy."

Holmes' voice, as biting and icy as I had ever heard it, cut through the thin wood of the door as if it were made of tissue. I froze with my hand on the doorknob, wondering to whom Holmes was speaking. I had not expected to find him in our room at the inn, but given his tone, I was not surprised that he had retreated there for what was clearly a private conversation.

"I did not _invite_ Doctor Watson to accompany me on this case," Holmes went on in the same frigid, cutting tones. "He volunteered his services. I did not decline them at the time, a decision I now sincerely regret. I would vastly prefer that he was back in London."

My breath caught in my throat. Blindly, I turned from the door and made my way down the stairs to the common-room, forgetting all about the notebook I had meant to retrieve from my bag.

Until that moment, I had never imagined Holmes might not want me with him on this case. In the four years since we had met, there had been some cases he had kept private, and a number of others where he made it clear that he had no interest in a companion. But those instances had been few compared to the overall number, and decreased as the years passed. By now, it was nearly a matter of course that I would accompany him on his cases, a trusted companion and ally against the dangers he regularly faced.

Or so I had thought. I realized I had never questioned my role or his satisfaction in my company. I had thought myself his valued friend, but perhaps I was nothing more than a habit – or a burden.


	2. Traveling Orders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes sends Watson back to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this chapter: "Using the WW Prompt table #1, choose five of the one hundred words. Your fic must encompass all five." I went a little nuts, and used the following: Weary, Drag, Failure, Shame, Weak, Emotion, Time, Blind, Effort, Truth, Pain, and Anger.

 

  
  


The common room was nearly empty, which was a blessing. I had no idea what emotion might show on my face, but I was certain it was nowhere near the calm I sought to present. Too many feelings swirled through me: confusion, shame, anger, betrayal, guilt, and a host of others. I had no idea what had brought this on, or the context of the conversation I had unwittingly overheard. I might be doing Holmes a grave injustice, assuming the worst from his words. He had not meant me to hear them. Even in my turmoil I knew Holmes was my friend, and that he would not want to cause me pain.

But I could not imagine a context where his statement was anything less than a damning indictment of my failure to be of use to him, either. And if that was the truth of the matter – if Holmes truly did not wish my company on this case, or indeed any of his cases – then I would not allow myself to be a drag upon him, a burden tolerated merely for friendship's sake.

If nothing else, I had my pride.

"Watson?" Holmes' voice broke through my reverie. "What are you doing here?"

I schooled my face with an effort before I turned to face him. He stood at the entrance to the common-room. Doctor Hiaasen stood immediately behind him, and I needed no special observational powers to guess that he had been Holmes' conversational companion. "I realized I forgot my notebook," I told Holmes with perfect veracity. "I was just on my way to fetch it."

A strange look flitted across his features before his face settled into its usual cold mask. "You shan't need it now," he told me. "I need you to return to London on the first train. There should be just enough time for you to fetch your bag and make your way to the station in time to catch the afternoon local."

"Whatever for?" I asked, more for form's sake than any other reason. At least Holmes had the mercy not to dismiss me outright in front of Hiaasen.

"Several questions have come up that will need a competent researcher, and I must remain here. I'll wire you with the details."

All at once I felt unutterably weary. Even without having overheard what I had, I would have known this for the flimsy pretext it was. But knowing what I did, I had no strength to fight it. "Very well, Holmes."

Perhaps I was better at masking my emotions than I thought, or maybe Holmes was simply used to my blind obedience to his requests. He gave me a quick smile. "Good man."

I hoped as much, but I did not feel so. I simply felt weak and outworn, an unwanted soldier grown unfit for duty and duly dismissed.

Which was nothing more or less than the truth. How I would address it, go forward – that was a matter for myself and myself only.


	3. Self-Arrest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson comes to the rescue. Twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written in response to the following prompt: Imprisonment/Hostage/etc. and Rescue fic.

 

 

I do not recall many details of traveling to the station, or even of buying my ticket and boarding the train. Most of that initial journey was a blur. When I finally roused myself from my brown study, the conductor had just announced that the little local train was arriving at Doncaster, where I would change trains to the main line. Sighing, I retrieved my doctor’s bag from the overhead shelf and prepared to disembark. My traveling-case would be waiting on the station platform.

“Give it back!”

Startled, I looked up just in time to see a gangly young lad emerge from the first-class compartment next to mine. He held something high over his head, clutched tightly in one hand. Before I could say a word, he crashed directly into me.

“Oh! Sorry!” he yelped, then shouted as a second figure barreled into him. No, not just barreled – the little girl _kicked_ him, one pointed boot landing directly on his shin.

“Give her back, Archie!” she cried.

“No, Beth! Not until you apologize to Auntie!”

“Children!” Even without seeing the speaker, I knew she was unwell. I could hear it in her voice, in the shortened breath that made even so short an exclamation an effort.  My guess was confirmed by her appearance in the doorway of her compartment. She was not young, but probably not as old as illness made her appear. Although neatly dressed and coiffed, her hair hung lank and thin in its styled waves, and her face was unhealthily pale. Two spots of color flickered to life as she saw me. “Oh!”

I gave her a short bow, hoping to alleviate her embarrassment. “Allow me, madam.”  I turned to the children. “Now, Miss, I believe you are in some distress?”

The little girl gulped and nodded, temper lost in the sudden novelty of being addressed by a stranger. “Yes, sir. My brother has my dolly!”

“So I observe.” I turned to the young man – hardly more than a boy himself – who had turned red with embarrassment. “Kidnapping is a grave offense, young man. At the same time, I believe you had a reason for turning to crime and taking this innocent doll hostage?”

My deliberate absurdity brought a smile to young Archie’s lips. “Yes, sir. My sister -” He broke off, and his color rose again. He clearly did not want to discuss his sister’s shortcomings with a stranger, no matter how friendly. Inwardly, I applauded his protective instincts.

“One crime instigated another?” I suggested.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, British law is a remarkable thing. It does not hold that one crime is an excuse for committing another. However, it is also always just, and in this case, I believe I know the perfect sentence for the pair of you. How about you both apologize to your aunt for making a spectacle on a public train, and consider the matter settled?”

The little girl stuck out her lower lip, pouting. “’M sorry, Aunt Amelia,” she mumbled before making a very pretty curtsey.

“I’m sorry too, Aunt Amelia. And I apologize for crashing into you, sir,” the boy added.

“Apology accepted. And now, if I may?” I reached out and plucked the doll away from where she still dangled, forgotten in the boy’s grip. “I believe I have rescued the damsel in distress.” I handed the doll to the girl with a gentle smile. “Take care that you behave and treat others well, so that you do not put her in danger again.”

The little girl’s eyes widened, as if this was an entirely new idea to her. “Thank you, sir. I’ll take good care of her, I promise.”

“And thank you, sir,” the aunt offered in little more than a hoarse whisper. “You’re very kind.”

“Not at all,” I demurred. “May I assist you off of the train?”

I was relieved to see that the woman and her two charges had three people waiting for them. I would not have liked to see her go off alone, but the sight of the older two of the three fussing over the aunt while the youngest competently took charge of the children eased my mind.

And the incident had done something else, too. It had rescued me from sliding further into the self-pitying melancholia that had mired me since overhearing Holmes’ conversation at the inn. I knew full well the perils of such a mood. I had struggled against it before, after Afghanistan. I had seen Holmes struggle against such moods too, not always successfully.

And I could see the darkness waiting for me, ready to pull me under, waiting for me with every rail-track leading to London.

I did not want to go there, I realized. Not back to 221B. Not yet. I needed to think. And if I meekly went where Holmes had sent me – dismissed me – held myself hostage to his expectations, I would surely sink back into the depths.

Or I could go somewhere else, long enough to work out what I might do next, or at least come to grips with what I had overheard and what it meant. And in so doing, perhaps rescue what remained of my self-respect and confidence.

The rail line ran two directions, after all.

I approached the ticket office. The agent looked at me incuriously. “One to Edinburgh, please. First class. How long is it until the next train?”


	4. Tick of the Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes slowly while in transit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written in response to the following prompt: "Type some phrase to do with a Sherlock universe (ie. Reichenbach, The Reigate Squire, Watson + kittens, etc.) into DeviantArt, Google Images, or some other image generator. The first picture that appears must be your inspiration and basis for the fic." My phrase was "Brother’s pocketwatch," my search engine was Bing images, and it resulted in this image: http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v37/shirebourn/ebayitems003.jpg.

 

 

For a brief while I felt buoyed up by my impulsive decision. The mood lasted while I ate a brief meal at the station, waiting on the Edinburgh train. It carried me through the bustle of boarding and securing myself a seat in a first-class compartment. The train was not full, and I found myself alone, as private as I could wish to be. I lit a cigarette and sat back against the velvet of the padded bench as the train rolled out of the station and picked up speed.

And soon enough, time began to weigh heavily upon me. I kept glancing up, expecting to see a familiar lean figure out of the corner of my eye. My nose twitched, missing the tang of his blend of cigarette tobacco. My ears kept expecting to hear that voice, raised above the clack of the car on the rails.

I had long known how dear a friend he was to me. But I had not realized the extent of how deeply he had embedded himself in every part of my life, every aspect of my waking consciousness, until now, when I forced myself to face the prospect of doing without him.

For could I go back to Baker Street, back to living and working with Holmes, knowing now what I did?

Absently, I brought out my pocket-watch, and found myself staring at its plain face, ticking away the hours, minutes, and seconds. It was not an expensive watch; the case was plain pewter, the hands and mechanisms simple, the numbers simply printed, the stem-wind unremarkable. My brother had our father’s watch, an expensive gold piece with matching chain and fob, and a seventeen-jeweled movement that require an actual key to wind.

I could have gone to Harry upon my return from Afghanistan. I could have attempted to recover my health and strength in his household, sparing my pension and living off of his charity.

I would have never recovered, not fully. I could not go – thrive – where I was not truly wanted. And it had been many years since we two were comfortable in each other’s presence. The fraternal tie between us, never overly strong after childhood, had withered and died long ago.

So what of Holmes, who was more than a friend, who was closer to me than my brother had ever been?

I buried my face in my hands.


	5. Message Incomplete

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Correspondence isn't always easy, even when you're a writer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written in response to the following prompt: "Epistolary fic, post-it note style. Write an epistolary fic, but each portion of the fic can only be a line or two long; the amount of words one could fit on a post-it note. Whether you want to use text messaging, scraps of paper, table napkins, actual post-its, or whatever, the bits can only be a sentence or two at a time."

**  
**

**Shredded scraps of notepaper and wire drafts, found in the wastebin of room 204, Hotel Alister, Edinburgh:**

 

 

Dear Holmes,

I am writing to you ~~from Ed~~ \- ~~because~~ – to tell you that I am well, and –

 

 

HOLMES STOP HAVE DECIDED TO VACATION IN EDINBURGH FOR A FEW DAYS STOP WILL RETURN

 

 

…I have no idea how to broach this with you, and so I am resorting to pen and paper, which I am sure you will mock without reservation…

 

 

 HOLMES STOP AM SAFE STOP DO NOT

 

 

You would think that as a doctor and a soldier, a piece of simple correspondence would be well within my capabilities. But as you can see, I am failing even in this…

 

 

When did I lose your confidence, Holmes? Or did I only delude myself into thinking that I had it in the first place?

 

 

MRS HUDSON STOP SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE STOP PLEASE SEND MY THINGS PAID ON DELIVERY TO THE FOLLOWING ADDRESS

 

 

Holmes,

It has come to my attention that I have been unfairly burdening you in the pursuit of ~~our~~ your ~~cases~~ livelihood. I ~~have never intended to~~ would never have dreamed of -

 

 

Damn me for a coward, Holmes. And damn you.


	6. At King's Cross Station

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A crowded train station brings surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written in response to the following prompt: "Playing in another sandbox. We all have those crucial stories we've always loved and which shaped our perceptions of characters, those ones we read over and over and love just as much the hundredth time through as we did the first time. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and now's your chance to flatter someone. Choose a fanwork (anything from published pastiche to something right here on LJ or ff.net) and write a scene inspired by it, missing from it, or in that universe. It's fanfic of a fanfic, in other words. This is your chance to pay tribute to those stories you've loved and learned from as a writer and a reader; only be complimentary and complementary to their universe, and make sure you credit appropriately and ask their permission if at all possible."
> 
> The lovely kcscribbler kindly gave me permission to play in her sandbox, and to use one of her characters in particular. I only hope I've done justice to him, and to her work! If you haven't read her work, you can find her on Fanfiction.Net, under the user name KCS.

 

I spent four days in Edinburgh, wrestling with my conscience, my courage, and my soul. It took that long to fully realize that my world had been shaken to its foundations, and to rebuild a reasoned perspective from that sudden tilt with which to view it. From which to view my life as it truly was now.

 I took long walks in the city I once knew so well, renewing my acquaintance with its myriad sights and sounds, so unlike any other city in the Empire. I wrestled with pen and paper for hours on end, trying and failing to craft an appropriate message – to Holmes, to Mrs. Hudson, to myself.

Twice I nearly decided not to return to London at all, but merely send for my things. But that was the path of cowardice and pride, and I would not surrender myself to such shame.

Four times I almost wired Holmes to demand an explanation.

Once I actually completed a draft of a letter. It merely lacked my signature and an envelope. I re-read it before signing, and savagely rendered it into tiny pieces.

In the end, unsure of what to say, or to whom to say it, I sent no messages at all.

Finally, however, I found peace as I walked beneath the shadow of Edinburgh castle. Looking up at that magnificent structure perched atop its craggy monument, a marvel of endurance and stubborn fortitude, I knew what I must do.

I must return to London, at once, and face Holmes directly. He – and I – deserved no less. If there was a chance to preserve our friendship and save our association, it was worth taking. And if his feelings were what I had overheard, then things must truly end between us, for I could not respect myself in continuing an association where he held no respect for me. If things came to that, as they might well do, then I would face it directly, face him, before taking my leave and starting over anew.

I could always relocate to Edinburgh, if I learned that Holmes truly had been humoring me all this time, if he had as little respect for my presence as his words suggested. There was little holding me in London besides the friendship I had thought we had, and far too many memories.

It was early evening by the time the train pulled into King’s Cross. I felt unutterably weary, more so than the journey warranted. The last four and a half days had taken their toll. I hardly knew whether to hope Holmes had concluded his case and returned to London, or dread it.

Either way, I would know soon. I gathered my bag and my travelling-case and made my way towards the cab-stands.

I was halfway there when a high voice called out in a strong accent.

“Doctor Watson?”

Startled, I looked up just in time to see a grubby, ginger-haired missile barrel out of the shadows and hurl himself at my legs. “Alfie!”

“Cor, it is you! Are yew alright?” The small Irregular’s accent was even thicker than normal, excitement garbling his words. His bright green eyes studied me anxiously. “Mr. ‘Olmes ain’t been half worrit! Where ha’ you been? Wha ‘appened?”

“I’m all right, Alfie.” I patted his head, returning the gentle touches he kept giving me, as if reassuring himself that I was really there. Or possibly just attempting to pick my pocket. Despite all our efforts, Alfie had yet to break himself of the habit, although he was always careful to return anything he successfully lifted off of Holmes or myself. “Wait – Holmes sent you? He knew I would be here?”

“A’course not.” The young scamp’s bright green eyes narrowed with scorn. “’E’s had one of us watchin’ all th’ main stations th’ last two days, and th’ rest combin’ the city for any word a’you. Oi’s been ‘ere since noon t’day, jus’ loik yest’day. ‘E’s been out lookin’, too, but mostwise stayin’ close t’Baker Street, jus’ in case.”

“Good God.” My tiredness washed away in a flood of anxiety and guilt. “I’d best get to Baker Street right away.”

“Roight away, an’ no mistake,” Alfie agreed solemnly. “Oi’m glad ye’re alright, Doctor.”

I wasn’t at all sure that I was, but I did my best to give Alfie a reassuring smile. “I am, too. Are you coming with me?”

Alfie shook his head, showing a fine sense of self-preservation when it came to a certain type of danger. “Nah, thanks, Oi think Oi’ll walk.”

“Very well, Alfie. Suit yourself.” I turned to go, even more uncertain what might await me.

“Oi! Doctor!”

I turned back to find Alfie giving me a sheepish grin. “Oi think yew’ll be needin’ this,” he told me as he held out my billfold.

  



	7. Destination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long-overdue conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written in response to the following prompt: "Gratuitous and shameless H/C/Schmoop. Cosy firelight, fuzzy slippers, hot tea, fleecy blankets, small gestures, kittens and unicorns, whatever brings out the schmooper in you." Well, I managed the firelight, gestures, and H/C. Schmoop? Well, I leave it to you to decide.

 

By the time the cab reached Baker Street, I felt nearly ill with tension. There was nothing for it. This was a mess of my own making, and it was up to me to deal with it, but I have felt less jittery going into battle.

I let myself in with my key and started up the stairs, grateful that there was no sign of Mrs. Hudson. I needed to see Holmes, first and foremost. Anything – anyone – else would be a distraction that I wasn’t sure I could bear, not now.

I reached the landing without hearing or seeing any sign of anyone. I had almost convinced myself that Holmes, too, must be out when the sitting-room door flew open with a bang, and there he was. He was in his dressing-gown, and his normally sleek hair stood out from his head in all directions, as if he had been pulling on it. His face was paler even than normal, and his eyes were wide. We stood there staring at each other for a frozen moment, and then he reached out with both hands and seized my arms in an iron grip. “Watson? You’re all right?”

“Perfectly fine, Holmes.” My voice sounded strange in my ears. “I’m sorry if I worried you.”

“ _If_ you worried me?” Holmes pulled me into the sitting-room, and then practically snatched his hands away. “What did you _think_ would happen?” His cheeks flushed as relief gave way to anger. “Watson, I know that you have no talent for deduction, but I would have thought that even you might - ”

All at once, I was tired of it all. Tired of everything, and I spoke before I could think twice. “I overheard you, Holmes.”

“…what?” Cut off in mid-diatribe, Holmes looked as confused as I had ever seen him.

“I heard you speaking with Hiaasen. You could have told me, you know,” I added, the bitterness and anger of the last days rising within me. I tamped the emotions down with an effort. “If you wanted me to stay in London – if you did not want me on the case with you – all you ever had to do was tell me so.”

Holmes stared at me as if I was speaking in tongues. He stood so still I wasn’t sure he was breathing. Finally he spoke. “What exactly did you hear me say, Watson?”

It was not hard for me to repeat the words exactly as I had heard them. I felt as if they were written on my skin, burned into my forehead like a brand. “‘Your hypothesis is predicated on a fallacy. I did not _invite_ Doctor Watson to accompany me on this case,’" I recited tonelessly. "‘He volunteered his services. I did not decline them at the time, a decision I now sincerely regret. I would vastly prefer that he was back in London.’ That is what I heard. That is what you said."

If I had thought Holmes pale before, now he looked as white as marble. His thin lips pressed together until they nearly vanished in the starkness of his expression.  His gaze briefly took on that faraway look that marks his most profound moments of cogitation, and then his eyes fixed on me. “Oh. Oh, I see.” He shook his head and then walked slowly to his chair as if his whole body pained him. I started forward, alarmed, only to halt as he looked at me again. There was not a trace of his usual unemotional mask. I could see – because he plainly let me see – everything that he currently felt: regret, remorse, a profound sadness, and over and above it all, a deep compassion for me, for how those words had affected me. “My dear Watson. I am terribly sorry.”

I found myself in need of my own chair. I sank down into its worn comfort, across the hearth-side from Holmes as I had sat hundreds of times before. Yet this was like none of those times whatsoever. “You didn’t mean for me to hear you,” I said numbly.

“No, of course not. And Watson, forgive me, but although you heard, you did not understand.”

“What do you mean?” Anger tried to stir again, but only dully, smothered by too many other emotions to catch hold. “Your words seemed plain enough to me.”

“Because you did not know their context!” The sudden snap of Holmes’ temper jolted me back in my chair. He saw it, and his voice softened, but lost none of its intensity. “I do not blame you, my dear fellow. Had I been in your place, I would have thought the same as you.”

I drew a deep breath. “Then explain it to me, Holmes. What did I miss?”

 _“Hiassen thought I had brought you with me as bait_ ,” Holmes hissed. Momentary rage twisted his face, but then faded as fast as it had come. “He had just _congratulated_ me on my ruthless cleverness in arranging so tempting a target.”  

I felt my breath leave my lungs in a startled whoosh. “What?” I gasped with the last of my air, but even as the word tumbled from my lips, I started to understand. The victims in the case had all been _pensioners_. I had even toyed with titling the case-notes as “The Adventure of the Poisoned Pensioners,” assuming that the vicar’s suspicions as to the nature of the illnesses of his parishioners proved correct.

And I was a pensioner, an ex-Army doctor invalided out due to permanent injury. There had been two others like me among the men who had sickened, one an officer, one an enlisted man, both crippled in earlier wars than the one that had claimed me.

The officer had been old, and had died, I vaguely recalled.

Before my thoughts could go any further, Holmes leaned forward and seized one of my hands in a crushing grip. “I swear to you Watson, I never saw you like that. I never intended - ”

I returned the grip immediately. “Of course you didn’t,” I assured him with absolute faith. “I would never believe that of you.”

“But I should have seen it,” Holmes continued, genuine self-loathing in his tone. “I should have realized that others might – that you might be at risk, and yet it never occurred to me!”

“Holmes.” I shifted so that both my hands held his own. “Thank you.”

That arrested him.

“Thank you,” I repeated. “Thank you for never seeing me in that particular light. As a half-crippled pensioner, even though that _is_ what I am - ”

“Never,” Holmes contradicted fiercely. “You aren’t, Watson. You never have been. You were injured, yes, and cruelly, but you have _never_ been a cripple. Or useless. You are _essential_.”

I colored, feeling my throat tighten. “I – thank you, Holmes,” I stammered.

A soft expression gentled every keen line of Holmes’ face. “Oh my dear fellow, it is the other way around. Thank _you_.”

Such heights of emotion cannot be sustained, particularly not between two men who are by nature and training unused to sharing much of anything of that nature. I do not believe that we would have managed to have said so much to each other, had our mutual habitual reserves not been battered down by fatigue, stress, and days of elevated emotions. We turned instead to safer subjects as we sat there together by the fire. In the warmth of brandies and companionship, Holmes revealed to me how he had solved the case, and I shared a few details of my travels and adventures in the days I had been away. He laughed at my rescue of the doll, and chuckled even harder at my description of Alfie’s light-fingered humor. Gradually, we spoke of a few other things, too. Not in many words, but enough.

We eventually fell asleep there in the sitting-room. I awoke in the morning with a terrible crick in my neck, looking up blearily from my chair to see Holmes snoring, slumped in his own seat. But when I woke him, he greeted me with a small, warm smile. That warmth persisted, just as a newfound closeness bound us even more firmly together than before.  
  
We both learned valuable lessons from the incident, and though it was painful, I cannot regret the decision I made in changing trains – if only because the eventual benefits far outstripped the initial cost.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted August 7, 2012


End file.
